


Solo Act

by Overnighter



Category: The OC
Genre: Canon Het Relationship, F/M, Future Fic, Masturbation, Other, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overnighter/pseuds/Overnighter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taylor wants to know what Ryan really likes when she's not there. </p>
<p>“I’m not dancing for you,” he growls, embarrassed and uneasy suddenly. “This isn’t like a show.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solo Act

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cheekymice](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cheekymice).



“I want you to touch yourself for me.” 

They’re on his new bed in his new apartment, just off campus in an old wooden house on Hillegas. It’s a rare warm day in July, and all the windows that can open are, rickety wooden panes jammed at angles with no screens behind them. He can hear the faint sounds of traffic moving on College Avenue, a couple blocks away, and the sun is heating the cedar shakes that make up the siding. The cedar smell and the warm, dead air are making it feel a little like a sauna, and he’s covered in a sheen of sweat already. 

He shakes his head and turns to grab at her, his hands leaving faint, sweaty imprints on the lavender cotton of the thin tank top she’s wearing. She’s still half-dressed for the outing they’d planned last night – a walk down to the Marina – before they decided it was too hot to go anywhere, and started fooling around. 

This is the second summer they’ve spent together, but their first in Berkeley. Taylor’s got an internship in the city, and a bedroom at Julie’s house in the hills, but she spends most nights here, with Ryan. His roommates are gone for the summer to internships and vacations of their own – Pete at Ryan’s old summer job in Paris and Reiku in New York – but he doesn’t mind staying home for a change. They’ve christened just about every flat surface in the small apartment by now, and the summer’s only half over.

He leans in to kiss her neck, shining with sweat. Her hair is sloppily pulled up in a twisted chignon, but he can still taste the faint, sweet soap of her shampoo under his lips, and under that the salty taste of her. She tips her head in submission, but just for a moment, before planting a hand in the middle of his chest and pushing him back, gently. 

“I don’t distract that easily,” she says, and smiles. She stands up from the bed, and he follows her, inexorably, drawn to her heat and her light. She smiles again and reaches out, stroking his face with the back of her hand before moving in to kiss him deeply, but when they break, she repeats a variation on her earlier request. 

“I want to see you touch yourself.” 

He blushes, but she’s already moved her hands beneath the ribs of his own white tank top, sliding it up as his sides as she kisses him again. He reaches his hands up over his head, like a little kid being undressed for bed, and he feels her step back again, just enough to pull the shirt over his head, discarding it on the floor. He bends towards it, but she stops him with her hands already fumbling at his waist. 

“For once, just leave it,” she murmurs against his lips before kissing him again. He rolls his eyes but obeys, as she manages to unbutton the top button of his jeans, hooking her thumbs under the waistband of his boxers and sliding both down over his legs, down to his knees until gravity takes over and they slide to the floor, where he kicks them off. He half-aborts another move towards them, and she raises her eyebrows again. 

“Leave it,” she repeats. 

She steps away from him, and he realizes for the first time that he’s the only one that’s naked. He starts to cover himself and then stops, flushing again, and she laughs a little, but her eyes are warm and kind. 

“I think I’ve seen what you’ve got to offer,” she says, “Once or twice.” 

She walks over to his desk, its half-unpacked surface the only messy spot in the room, and pulls the desk chair out and across the room, placing it catty-corner to his double bed. He liked this room because it was dim in the mornings, and bright in the afternoons, when he was liable to be awake and studying, but now he’s aware of how bright everything is, how exposed. He can see her bare feet leave faint, sweaty prints on the hardwood floor as she settles into it, then tucks her feet under her on the seat, knees beneath her chin. 

“I’m not dancing for you,” he growls, embarrassed and uneasy suddenly. “This isn’t like a show.” 

He sees an appraising look flash across her face, and she’s up in an instant, hair half-tumbling down her back with her speed. She leans into him, her hands clutching his arms, as she kisses him – his forehead, his neck, his chin – and then reaches up and drags a hand through his hair, mussing it as she goes. 

“This is supposed to be fun,” she whispers, “Stop thinking so much. I just want to see what you like.” 

He reaches out and grabs her hand as she starts to step back again. 

“You know what I like. I like you,” he says, kissing the back of her hand, reaching out to bring her closer. She kisses him one last time, and then gently disengages, but she doesn’t go as far this time, just sinks onto the bed, onto the dark-blue comforter that he’d picked out with Kirsten, and he pushes that thought out of his mind. 

“I know you do,” she says, “But you’re always so focused on me. Today is about you.” 

He starts to protest again, but she shakes her head, settling back on the bed with her hands behind her. 

“Just pretend I’m not here,” she says, and he laughs. He couldn’t not see her, not know that she was there. It’s like he’s got a new sense, calibrated to her precisely. She grins, as if to acknowledge that, and reaches out to touch him, lightly, on his bare thigh. 

“Okay, that’s not going to happen. Just, I won’t say anything. I won’t laugh,” she promises. She knows him too well, sometimes, he thinks. 

He tries to reach for her one last time, but she shakes her head, and stands. Moving around the bed. For a moment, he thinks she’s rejecting him, but she’s just moved to her nightstand, picking up the cheap bottle of drugstore hand lotion she keeps there before bed. At her apartment, in her room at Julie’s, she’s got stuff in a glass bottle with a French label, but here, even when he wants her everywhere, she tries not to intrude. 

That little bit of insecurity reminds him that he knows her, too, knows her too well, and that this – display – is something that she wants, that she thinks they need. She’d never hurt him this way, and that makes him relax. 

“Want a little help getting started?” she asks, and he nods. She reaches out and grasps his right hand and turns it to her, palm up, before squirting a dash of lotion into it, then smiles as she sits down on the bed again. 

He works the lotion into his hands, then shifts a little to face her. The sheer curtains are drawn, and they’re on the third floor; he knows no one can see him, but still, he feels exposed. He looks down at her, smiling, expectant, and reaches down with his right hand to grasp his own half-hard cock. It feels hot, thick, familiar, in his hands, and he closes his eyes as he pumps it once, twice, to bring it to full hardness.

It feels strange to do this with her in the same room, so close he can hear her breathe. Usually, when they’re in the same city for more than a few days, he’s sated. It’s only when she’s gone that he resorts to this. 

He moves his hand with practiced ease over his own cock, his thumb brushing against the tip, smearing pre-come, smoothing the friction better than the lotion. 

He could open his eyes and see her, see her rapt and interested face, but instead, he runs through his catalogue in his mind. He thinks of her, sometimes, when he does this, but more often, it’s a collection of bits – the curve of a neck, the stretched outline of bra through a thin shirt – anonymous and disjointed. Sometimes, he doesn’t think of much at all. 

Today, though, he’s being slow and careful, letting himself feel the pressure of his own hand. It’s not a show, exactly, but knowing that she’s there, watching, makes him aware of his own motions, his half-hidden wants and desires. He thinks of her beneath him, in her little apartment in Montmartre, spread out in the dark, the glow of Christmas lights in the distance. He thinks of her in the Cohens’ backyard, head thrown back, laughing, as Ryan huddles on top of her behind the water table, hoping Sophie goes left and not right when the Cohens return unexpectedly early from their day at the park. He thinks of her, the scent of her clinging to his pillow as she nuzzles against him in the dark, in her sleep, burrowed under the covers in this small apartment. 

His hand is moving faster now, with more pressure, and he’s giving into the sensations. He hears himself making noises, little grunts, low in his throat as his hand works, and he drops his other hand down, lower, to cup his own balls. He feels himself arch into, just a little, his hips starting to snap of their own accord. He’s never done this standing up before outside of the shower, and the sensation is odd as he sways back and forth in the empty air. 

He’s nearly there, fingers flying, when he feels her hand over his, and his eyes fly open. She’s standing in front of him, her own clothes in a pile on the floor beside his, and how did he miss that – miss her – like that? 

“Almost there?” she whispers, and then, when his hand stills, “Don’t stop.” 

He starts again, and her hand stays over his, resting lightly, but tightening and loosening in time with his own grip. He can feel her, learning, absorbing. He knows that next time she touches him, this will be the rhythm she follows, the way her hands will move. She wants to know what he’s like alone, and selfish, when he’s not thinking of her, of anyone, for a change. She pays attention to him. She always has. 

That thought makes his cock jump in his hand, and he twists, following the sensations. Her hand slips for a moment, brushing against the tip of his cock, and it’s too much, just enough, and he comes, startling them both. His back arches and his eyes flutter shut, and he can hear her, whispering in his ear. 

“Beautiful. You’re so beautiful.” 

When he opens his eyes, she’s laughing again, head thrown back, but not at him, never at him. Their hands are sticky with his come, and there’s a neat line of it on the hardwood floor, dots and dashes like some kind of dirty Morse code. 

“You even come like a neat freak,” she chortles, and he laughs, too, sinking onto the bed, pulling her down with him. He reaches for a tissue, to clean up the mess, but she just shakes her head and bends over their intertwined hands, her small, pink tongue reaching out to lick them both clean, sliding his fingers in and out of her mouth in a way that seems more gentle than obscene. His cock twitches in interest, and she smiles down at him again. 

“Rest before round two?” she asks, and pulls them down flat, not bothering to pull down the comforter. 

“There’s a round two?” he says hopefully, as she turns to spoon into his side. He trails an idle finger down her sweat-slick skin, over the swell of her breast and down her belly, making her shiver. Her legs are open slightly, and he can see her thighs wet with more than sweat, and he shivers himself to think of her watching him, turned on and silent, just out of reach. 

“Do you want me to . . .” he starts, his finger dipping lower, tracing her damp curls, but she shakes her head and kisses him. 

“You never listen, do you? I’m fine for now. I’m waiting for the main event,” she says, and giggles. “Did I get that right? I’m working on my sports references.” 

“Just fine,” he says, and he can feel the weight of the afternoon pressing down on his eyelids. He feels comfortably drained, and drowsy, and safe here. 

“Do you think that come stains hardwood?” he murmurs, and he feels, rather than hears, her sigh against him. 

“I don’t think so. It’s not really acidic or anything,” she answers, her voice sounding curious, like she’s figuring it out. She fits him, better than anyone else he’s found, and he doesn’t know how to tell her, to let her know. 

“Thinking again,” she mutters, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Now sleep.” 

And because she asks, he does. And when he wakes, in the cool of the early evening, she’s curled against his side, like a lock in a key.


End file.
